


sing, little black bird

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blasphemy, Chains, Horror, M/M, Music, Religion, Singing, i don't know how either, somehow they fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23695840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He met the devil out in the sticks, alone with nobody but crows for company, strumming on his grandfather’s guitar.And he said: “Could you teach me how to play?”
Relationships: Male Rock Star Who Sold His Soul to the Devil/The Devil Come to Collect
Comments: 5
Kudos: 39
Collections: Anonymous, Smut 4 Smut 2020





	sing, little black bird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BiffElderberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiffElderberry/gifts).



Under the blinding white stage lights, he could feel the drumbeats thrumming in his bones. The metal wires danced underneath his fingers. People danced in front of him like puppets on strings, enthralled by the sounds he was making. Bared shoulders and raised hands, bodies undulating together in a huge crowd. And all of it was for him.

There was a purity to this, John thought. There could be nothing more divine.

The energy on the stage was electrifying tonight, like some other force had descended upon them all and pulled them all into one shared moment. Nothing else mattered, just the pounding bass notes under his feet and the kick of his heart at the front of his chest. He was one with the music, something that only happened rarely, on special occasions when he could forget everything and just play.

"You were on fire tonight," Allen said to him later, as they hopped off the stage, listening to the roar of the crowd behind them.

"Thanks," John said breathlessly. He was still buzzing from the energy that had just passed through him. He looked back longingly at the stage. "Should we do another encore?"

Carlton whacked him over the back as he passed by. "Give me a break," the drummer said. "My hands are about to fall off. How are your fingers not bleeding yet?"

John held his trembling hands up to the dim yellow light. Backstage, the rest of the band was unloading instruments into cases and beginning to chatter to themselves. Carlton was right. They should wrap this up now.

But -

"Just one more?" he asked.

The rest of the band didn't hear him.

John felt a chill run down his spine. He suddenly felt as if he were in a bubble of sound, where the voices from the other members were muted and faded, like they were being filtered through some film of invisible air. He drew in a deep breath.

"Hey," he said, surprised that his voice didn't shake. "It's too early. You're not supposed to be here yet."

"Is that any way to greet your old teacher, John?"

John turned, and behind him a man stepped out from the shadows. He was gleaming pale and ethereal, grinning like the devil. He wore a suit and tie, sharp as a tack, made out of the kind of fabric that spelled money and cigars and trouble.

John swallowed a lump that suddenly appeared in his throat.

"Hello, teacher," he said.

  
  
  
  


"Let me see you," his teacher said.

John locked himself to stillness, trapped his arms to his sides, and forced himself not to flinch as the creature came towards him. A long finger tapped him underneath his chin, lifting his face up until he was staring directly into red, hellfire eyes.

"How was it?" the devil asked. "Was it worth it?"

The energy from the stage was still buzzing in his veins, hot and intoxicating and divine. John shivered a little as he felt the residues of the stage lights on the skin evaporate at that chilly touch.

"Don't take me yet," John begged. "Just a bit longer. I still want to play. I still want to perform. I haven't done what I've set out to achieve yet. We've only just started."

"You can't keep hiding from me, you know," the devil said. "You need to come to me eventually."

"I know."

That had been their deal, all those years ago, back when John had been a nobody in a small Midwestern town, back when all he had was his grandfather's guitar, and liked playing for the crows on the crossroads.

 _I'll teach you a few turns,_ the devil had said, although John hadn't known about him being the devil yet. _You've got potential. I think I could really make something outta you._

His eyes hadn't been red, back then. Thinking back on it, John couldn't actually remember actually seeing his eyes. He had been wearing a wide-brimmed hat and had been smoking a cigar, alone against the clear night sky. John had never even found it suspicious to find such a man all the way out there, with nothing but the crows for company.

"I'm getting impatient, though." The devil let go of his chin and trailed rail-thin fingers down the column of John's neck. Those fingers had been bewitching, playing notes on John's guitar and making music like nothing John had ever heard before. He had asked for lessons on the spot.

John desperately tried to think of something, anything.

"Please." He was only twenty-five. He was too young to die. "Is there anything else you want? Anything else I can give you?"

He was stopped by a finger against his lips, and a very sharp smile on the devil's face. "The only thing I want is your soul," he said.

A thought struck John, and he leaned forward eagerly. "How about I pay in installments?"

The devil withdrew his fingers, frowning.

"Installments?"

"Yes," John felt his breath coming fast. This had to work. It _had_ to. "A part of my soul now, a piece later. But keep me alive until we become stars."

The devil laughed, then covered John's mouth with his own, a blasphemy of a kiss. "What an audacious wish," he crooned softly. "It's not like you'll ever reach heaven."

  
  
  
  


The air felt warm and wet, like he was underground, like there was no sky. He strained to see something past the gloom, strained for the sight of pale skin and red eyes.

"I'm going to do you a favor," the devil said, smiling down at him. "I'm going to give you a taste of hell, just so that you know what you're getting into."

John shifted uncomfortably in the pitch black darkness.

It was always a little like this, when he and the devil met. Time seemed to slow, then stop, like he could hear a metronome clicking slower and slower until it shut off into ringing silence. The room had darkened with shadows until it was just him. And even though others would never notice - John was gone from the backstage room where all his bandmates were, he was gone from the world completely, maybe. He would never know.

All he had with him was his guitar, still out of its case, with its glossy red body and flames painted all across the sides. He looked down at it now, oddly comforted by having something to hold.

"Tell you what," the devil said. "Let's play a game, you and I. As long as you keep playing on that guitar, I won't touch you."

John's eyes jerked up to the devil's face. "Really?" he asked, unable to contain his surprise.

"And, of course, but you have to sing, too."

That didn't seem hard at all. John sat down on the ground, guitar settled on his knees, feeling so weak with relief that he could hardly stay upright. He could play, and he could sing. That was as easy as breathing to him. A hidden hope curled up in his chest. Maybe he could hold out long enough that the devil left him alone after all.

He tapped his fingers against the instrument, thinking.

Across from him, the devil settled down as well, tipping his head back into the shadows until the only thing that was visible was his intense red gaze.

John started with some warm-ups, even though he was still warm from the performance. It was completely different, performing here, in a little pocket of darkness with an audience of one. There were none of the bright stage lights, none of the cheers and yells and stomping feet. The energy was completely different.

But the intensity was still there.

John could feel the devil's eyes on him, on his fingers and wrists, studying how they moved along the neck of the guitar. They felt a bit like a teacher's eyes, appraising his student's work. If he closed his eyes and forgot the hellfire in that gaze, he could pretend that it was just another one of their lessons, back when he had been a nobody, back when his fingers were clumsy and uncoordinated, and slipped on every third note.

He played perfect, now. How could he not? He had spent the last few years chasing perfection.

His throat felt oddly scratchy when he began to sing. Not a good sign. Maybe he had gone a little overboard during their performance earlier, and only now, with his blood cooling in his veins, was he beginning to notice.

He felt the devil's eyes on his throat, could feel him listening to every note. His heart began to kick at the front of his chest like an off-beat, off-tune drum. No. He couldn't be afraid. He couldn't stop. And he couldn't sing out of tune. If he did, then -

The song came to an end, and somehow his voice held. John bent over the guitar, taking a few deep breaths.

"I didn't say you could stop," the devil said.

John's fingers immediately went back to their proper positions. Fear rose up like black cloud, nearly paralyzing him, until he forced it back down.

He cleared his throat, and instantly launched into another song. He made the mistake of looking up and seeing the devil tapping his foot absentmindedly, his long fingers drumming the melody against his arm.

John closed his eyes.

 _I'm playing a murder ballad for the devil,_ he thought distantly. _How appropriate._

Time began to slip past him in fits and spurts. He ended one song and began another, sometimes without even pausing to breathe in between. He felt like he was being wrung dry, like invisible hands had taken him along the head and his feet, and had twisted him until he had produced every sound possible. His throat was beginning to hurt, now. He wished desperately for some water. But he was too afraid to stop.

His fingers trembled. _More_. His thigh started to twitch with exhaustion. _More_. His palms were sweating, leaving wet marks on the fingerboard of the guitar. He was terrified that they might cause him to miss a note. _More, I can't stop._ His eyes were burning, even when he closed them. God, but his throat hurt.

He kept playing. Because if he stopped playing, then the floor would open up underneath him, and the fire underneath his skin would feel like an arctic wind compared to what lay waiting there.

On, and on, and on. After he ran out of his own songs, he started doing covers. All he could think of were songs about the devil, songs about drinking, about sex and money and crimes and shooting, about being on the run. It was strange. For someone raised to go to church every Sunday, he couldn't think of a single Psalm or chant. He had the feeling that the devil would have found those songs amusing.

He racked his head for more songs. He switched genres. He played songs that he had heard on the radio, driving down the ninety-five. He played songs that his bandmates had hummed underneath their breath. He played songs that he had been intending to write, once he sat down properly with a pen and some sheet music, songs that had been brewing in the back of his head this entire time without him realizing it.

Until finally, shaking, he bent over the guitar, covered head to toe in sweat, and found that he couldn't make a single sound. His throat felt destroyed. He couldn't feel his fingers.

Distantly, he was aware of the devil standing up. There was no applause, no approving smile, just a ringing silence.

A hand grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up into a pale white face, sharp features and a pleased expression.

John tried to say something, but all that came out was a choked sob.

"Shh - don't move," the devil said, stroking a finger along the side of his face. Everything about him was cold, like skin sheathed over ice. John opened his mouth obediently as a thumb brushed against his lower lip. He was crouched on the ground, on all fours, like a dog. The guitar slid soundlessly to the ground.

For a long time, he just existed with the ache of tiredness pulsing inside him, sore and painful and entirely self-inflicted. He felt as if he had a fever.

He closed his eyes, half in fear and half in anticipation. Whatever the devil had in store for him next, he would find out soon enough.

There was a weight against his tongue, holding it down against the bottom of his mouth. His jaw felt forced open. Distantly, fearfully, he wondered if he would be speared through like a fish and left to dangle up in the air.

Then another finger entered his mouth, opening his mouth wider. Saliva began to pool underneath his tongue, collecting in the back of his throat. John attempted to swallow, but the motion just made his tongue wriggle against the fingers pinning them down. The pressure increased.

Something cold brushed against his cheek, and then weighted down against his bottom lip. With a muffled whimper, John was forced to open his mouth even wider. Long, rail-thin fingers wrapped around the back of his head, pressing him forward. The thing was forced deeper into his mouth, deeper, deeper.

He heard a satisfied hiss above him, and it was only when he felt his nose pressing against smooth, cold skin, that his eyes flew open and he realized that his mouth was wrapped around a cock, long and thin and blessedly cold against the ruined walls of his throat.

A small whimper of protest escaped him before it was too late. He instinctively tried to swallow, but the hand tightened against the back of his head and he couldn't move.

His throat still burned from overuse, but it felt like someone had shoved a cold, numb iron rod into it. John forced himself to relax, giving into the exhaustion and the fear. Surprisingly, it felt _good_. It felt like the burn underneath his skin was cooling down, just a little. It felt like medicine, although not the usual kind - the numbing kind.

He sat very still, on his knees, and tried his best not to move.

"Very good," the devil said. John could hear the smile in his voice. "You are a natural-born performer, it seems. I was right to choose you."

His fingers curled into John's hair. He tugged lightly on it as he drew his hips back, the tip of his cock withdrawing to just inside John's lips. Then he thrust forward in one, unforgiving motion.

John couldn't even cry out. He lurched forward, hands scrabbling desperately for some sort of purchase, some support, anything. He clutched onto the front of a jacket, the fabric soft and silky underneath his fingers. One of his hands slipped, and made contact with bony hips, skin cold to the touch. His throat convulsed around the cock inside him. As soon as it withdrew, he gasped.

His mouth was burning again, rubbed raw by the friction, but his throat felt numb and cool and no longer hurt. He almost leaned forward, anticipating the next thrust, when he felt fingers against the side of his neck.

The devil bent down to face him, fixing him with hellfire red eyes. The intensity in them made John's vision swim.

"That was a little gift," he said. "Before we get started. I wanted to be able to hear you scream."

He snapped, and chains sprang up from the murky ground and wrapped around his wrists and ankles. John bit back a terrified cry. The metal dug into his skin, harsh and unforgiving and too tight. Maybe he was to be dangled up in the air after all.

Darkness blanketed his eyes, and it felt like the humid air was starting to seep inside his skin. John shivered without meaning to, a sharp zing of sensation zipping through him, before mastering himself. The chains tightened until his arms were lifted high above his head, and his knees dragged against the ground. He wasn't lifted to his feet, so he just hung there, half-suspended, half-kneeling, trembling uncontrollably.

"If you scream," the devil said kindly. "No one will hear you. So scream to your heart's content."

John bit down. He considered begging for mercy. He wondered madly if he should sing something. Something uncomfortably warm was stirring in his gut. He couldn't help but think of the devil watching him, even now, with that unwavering gaze.

"How much will this hurt?" he asked finally, his voice cracked and broken.

"As much as you want it to," came the reply.

  
  
  
  


Pain came in waves, but the pleasure that came after was worse.

Something was dribbling in between his ass cheeks. He wondered if it was blood. It felt warm and liquidy, and then a foreign object suddenly brushed up against his hole.

John whimpered plaintively, head lolling back, held up only by his chains. Every muscle ached as if it had been kicked and abused several times. Every inch of his skin was on fire, like it had been injured until it was bright red and smarting. His clothes fell off him in tattered pieces.

Something cold slid into him. John gasped, curled up around it. He tensed without meaning to, and realized -

When he screamed, this time it was a pure, unfiltered note of terror. The devil hooked his chin over John's shoulder, and sighed in happy satisfaction. His fingers moved inside John slowly, scissoring him open. They sent jolts of sensation up his spine in unstoppable waves.

"I can't," John sobbed. His hands clenched into fists. He fought uselessly, trying to twist his hips away, trying to press down for more. He was going mad, he could tell, nobody could want this, nobody should -

"I think I'm going too easy on you," the devil said, amused. His other hand came up to press against John's dick, hard and leaking. "You might be enjoying this even more than I am."

"- ‘m _not_ ," John tried to get out. His breath was coming in gasps, and he kept hiccuping as his body jolted and writhed in reaction to the movement of fingers inside him. "I'm _not_ , I'm not, please, _stop_ -"

A third finger teased against his entrance. All of his thoughts blasted right out of his head as John arched his back and moaned something low and deep. He was pressing forward now, canting his hips up, knees tight around bony hips and his lower back supported by a hand pressing flat against his spine.

He was burning again, or itching might be the better word. It buzzed underneath his skin, so close to the surface that he thought it would just burst out of him. He tried to gain some leverage, tried to move, but none of his muscles were responding to him. He felt like he was slowly being reduced to a rag doll, unable to do nothing more than tremble as sensations overwhelmed him.

" _Don't_ ," he sobbed. The third finger was pushing in, more of a slow slide than anything forced. His body clenched around it, opened and then clenched again. He was going mad. He had to be. " _Don't_ , I don't want this. I can't - I _can't_ -"

He felt teeth against the side of his neck, and a very sharp smile. The coldness made him shiver, and the two points of contact were all that existed for him - the lips against his throat and the press of fingers inside his ass.

"Oh yes," the devil sighed, "Just like that. Has anyone ever told you how pretty you sound when you beg?"

A thick, numbing sensation was stealing over John's mind. It was more than just exhaustion. It turned all his words into mush. His tongue felt wet and heavy in his mouth, weighed down by the phantom sensation of fingers pressing past his teeth and reaching into his throat. He made endless, wordless whimpering sounds as fingers pushed in and out of his ass. He was beginning to feel the numbing burn down there too, just like he had in his throat.

"I think you're ready for more now," the devil said. "Aren't you?"

John couldn't reply. A moment later, the chains yanked hard against his wrists and he was forced upwards, his shoulders nearly tearing out of his sockets. His back hit something so hard that it knocked him out of his stunned state.

"There," the devil breathed. He was spread eagle, against the wall, crucified and unable to move. Cold fingers withdrew from him, leaving a wide, gaping emptiness. John leaned forward without meaning to, chasing after that touch.

A palm ran down his side, then gripped the underside of his thigh. An instant later, his legs were hooked around the devil's waist. Something cold pressed against his hole, and this time John recognized it, and his entire body clenched down in anticipation and fear.

 _"Wait -_ " he gasped, but it was too late.

Bony white fingers curled around his hips. They shot chills through him that ratcheted up in intensity every time he moaned. Pleasure was curling inside his gut, unwanted and unstoppable.

"Sing for me now," the devil said. "Sing, little black bird, and maybe this will hurt less for you."

Then, without waiting, he drove forward and impaled John in one thrust.

It felt like dying. It felt like waking up. His thighs smacked against bony hips with each thrust, and sparks went shooting up his spine like fireworks. They tore him apart from the inside with the force of them, until he couldn't remember if he had ever existed before this.

When John opened his mouth and sang, every note was shaky and off tune. His voice cracked. His breathing ruptured every time there was a particularly hard thrust.

The devil's cock was hitting something in his body with every thrust, now, something that made his mind go blank and empty. He suddenly felt like he was being detached from it all, like his soul was leaving his body, and all of this was happening to something else.

In the dark, with an audience of one, John sang like a madman, and started to laugh.

  
  
  
  


He woke up, spent and empty, in his hotel room bed. He was alone, with the covers thrown over him. His entire body ached. His mouth opened but he could make no sound.

"Don't worry," a hand came out of nowhere, smoothing his hair out of his face. The gesture seemed unnaturally fond. John went completely still. "Your voice will come back in a couple days. You blew out your vocal chords, you know, but I fixed them for you. After all, for the price of a soul, I'll do anything for you."

Relief washed over him like a warm breath. Good. He could still sing.

"You'll perform for me in the deepest circles of Hell," the devil said. "You'll be my own personal slave, and you'll play for me till the end of days. So sleep, little blackbird. I'll see you again soon."

**Author's Note:**

> So, my image of the devil came from here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ltx-pmjdAAI&list=PL2d84LyYy5SYwewbD-WycaEaMhvL7eVox&index=2
> 
> And also from Colter Wall's 'The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie' the entire time. And also from the Supernatural fandom, except they have yellow eyes.


End file.
